


The Last Test and Proof

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3773578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said there are five stages of grief. It is also said that if you ask three Narnians a question, you will get four opinions. This story falls somewhere in the middle: if there are many ways to mourn, so there must be many paths towards healing. The ways of preparing tripe, on the other hand, are (thankfully) finite. A story of grief, Guards and gastronomy, inspired by the rich and lovely Narnia as written by Rthstewart, who graciously let me borrow her characters for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rthstewart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Harold and Morgan: Not A Romance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/733464) by [rthstewart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/pseuds/rthstewart). 
  * Inspired by [Culinary Diplomacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3686346) by [rthstewart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/pseuds/rthstewart). 



> Opening quotes are from Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (Letter 7).

**Prologue**

_"It is clear that we must hold to what is difficult; everything alive holds to it, everything in Nature grows and defends itself in its own way and is characteristically and spontaneously itself, seeks at all costs to be so and against all opposition."_

_\- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (Letter 7)_

 

Cair Paravel smelled like tripe.

This in of itself was not such an unusual occurrence as its denizens might have wished. Cook had always been temperamental and frequently showed her displeasure with the most potent weapon available to her: the menu. But though the scent was familiar, the circumstances of the castle had changed, perhaps irrevocably.

Mrs. Furner was agitated. The remembrance they had held a fortnight earlier had gone smoothly. Queen Susan would have approved, and Mrs. Furner herself had told Cook as much. That had been her first mistake.

Normally Cook’s tantrums were predictable, with predictable triggers (Teddy the Rat Buck’s nighttime foraging) and predictable results (airborne cutlery and broken crockery), and bearing predictable punishments (tripe, tripe, and more tripe: fried for breakfast, stewed for lunch, and plain with bread for supper). Mrs. Furner _liked_ predictable. The unexpected and inexplicable made every last one of her hairs curl. It was most uncomfortable. It had the unfortunate side effect of making her snappish, even with Cook.

That was her second mistake.

Mrs. Furner had never before made three consecutive mistakes, nor did she now. Cook did not give her the chance. She simply threw everyone out of the kitchen (predictable), bolted the door (also predictable), and began to stew tripe. Eminently predictable. Mrs. Furner had almost made the unprecedented third mistake of beginning to breathe easy when the unthinkable happened. The news wafted through the castle carried on fumes of offal: Cook had left.

 

**Chapter 1: Denial**           

_"It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult."  - Rilke, Letter 7_

 

It had been just over a year since the Departure. All Narnia spoke of it with a capital D, even the ones who did not even have digits to allow writing. Perhaps especially them. Over a year – Jalur refused to count the days; he had never been so exacting with numbers as his King – over a year, and they had finally begun to heal. With the birth of her cub, even Morgan seemed to have settled into life at the Narnian court, at least as much as she ever had. The Murder reported to her, now. She set about running Narnia’s intelligence operations with that same brisk and incomprehensible efficiency that so pleased the Rats and Crows but befuddled most humans who came into contact with her. The Beasts had sheltered Morgan more than ever this past year. Now, she was easing into her new role, divesting herself slowly of the last vestiges of Banker, becoming ever more both Regent and Mother.

Gaiety had returned to the palace halls, replacing bereavement. The dryads were pollinating as heavily as ever. Jalur’s whiskers were perpetually coated with the stuff. He sneezed experimentally. It helped. Odd, how it had never seemed to help King Edmund. Jalur looked crosswise down at his own nose, wondering if it would turn red. He doubted it. For some reason, that made him cross.

A year, and then some. Sallowpad would know how many days, but Jalur would not ask him. He knew the anniversary, which was no celebration, had come and gone when the moon was but a crescent. It waxed now, and hung heavy low over the trees, a pale disk in early daylight. Jalur glanced at the cradle. The cub was still, his breathing regular. Cubs slept a lot. Much like Tigers. Jalur nudged the cradle with one paw. It swung noiselessly, as only something of Dwarf craftsmanship could. Jalur closed his eyes. His tail flicked in lazy counterpoint to the cradle. Just one more quiet spring day, as ordinary as things ever were in Narnia. Except for the smell, of course.

Cair Paravel still smelled like what Jalur imagined the entrails of Otter would smell like. In a rare bout of loquaciousness (not loneliness – a Cat always preferred solitude), he shared this observation with Morgan. She did not reply, and only turned a sickly hue of – green? Interesting. Jalur thought the nausea would have passed after the birth.

He threw himself on the jumble of pillows next to the cradle and stretched. The cub's eyes opened and followed the lazy swish of Jalur's tail. The Tiger rumbled his approval. Good hunting instincts.

"It smells like Otter entrails," he declared again, gratified to see the Cub's gaze track up to his face. The Cub reached up with a tiny fist and gurgled. Jalur jerked his head away. The Cub invariably wanted to yank his whiskers.

"Blugh," the Cub pronounced.

"Otter," agreed Jalur, pleased that the Cub did not share his mother's aversion to tripe. Slick, rubbery, with that delicious scent of fresh musk… Perhaps King Edmund would –

No. King Edmund would not. Jalur heaved himself up and stalked out the door, the Cub still burbling happily behind him.


	2. Anger

_"That something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it."_

_\- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (Letter 7)_

               

It had been 400 days since the Departure, and Briony was growing impatient with her mate. Oh, she understood the wrenching pain of Guard separated from Monarch, from Alpha, from Pack. Briony understood better than any Beast in all of Narnia how that affected a Wolf. But, though she still slept curled atop one of Queen Lucy's shirts (well, technically King Edmund's), at least Briony _slept_. In her own den. She did not keep a futile nightly vigil at the creek in the woods. She howled to the stars when the grief was fresh, and she breathed in her Queen's fading scent when the longing swelled. But she did not subside into an interminable silence. Her mate had a beautiful voice, yet she had not heard it in song or speech for longer than Briony could recall. Even Jalur had more to say than Lambert of late.

Night after night, Lambert lingered by that stream. Surely if he had found some magic window to that Other Place, he would tell her. What did he see in those waters that kept him there alone? A growl escaped Briony's throat. She had a sudden urge to shake him by the scruff of the neck like a wayward pup. Or bite him hard enough to draw blood.

Even for a Wolf, best among hunters, Briony was known for her patience. She had coaxed Queen Lucy out of a tree. She had raised a litter of squirming, helpless, demanding pups. She had drilled with Sir Leszi, endured long campaigns on barren trails far from home, counseled Lord Regent Aidan, her Queen's consort, and herded Archenlander children about the Cair. Briony had been Guard and mother and mate all at the same time, without complaint. Had she not spent the past 400 days helping console every forlorn Beast in a twenty mile radius around Cair Paravel? 400 days with her Queen's voice and scent growing ever fainter in memory. 400 days of bearing what could not be borne, in solitude, while her mate withdrew in body and mind.

And now, after 400 days, Briony was tired of being patient.

* * *

Cair Paravel was in an uproar. Mrs. Furner went about pulling her red hairs out one by one, and then by the tuft. Cook had not only left without notice but had utterly vanished, for no discernible reason. A full moon had waxed and waned, and even the most staid and patient of Narnians had begun to grumble. The humans bore the worst of it, though of course the children were well-nourished. But everyone's feathers were ruffled and fur rubbed the wrong way, and the Guards' hackles were up. And the castle  _still_ smelled like tripe. It was the only thing Cook had left prepared, and her stores seemed endless.

And so an informal council had gathered upwind from the kitchens. “Queen Susan would _not_ approve.” Sallowpad clacked his beak.

“This is untenable,” Rafiqa agreed. “I would not smell even a Calormene perfume seller if he came trundling through the halls with all his wares.”

“Pulled by a dozen sweaty slaves,” agreed Teddy, who scrubbed at his nose in distaste. “But what can we do about it?”

Jalur remained silent. He thought the castle smelled rather nice, but did not bother saying so.

Lambert, of course, was not present. And Briony suddenly discovered that her vast store of patience was, like the Cair's pantry, utterly depleted. “Enough," she snapped. "It is long past time to act. This waiting for someone who will never return is pointless. It's time to find a replacement for Cook." The Wolf's words fell like stones. After a long moment of silence, the ripples spread into mutters, then outright squabbling.

“Impossible!”

“There is only _one_ Cook.”

 “Have you no sense of loyalty?” (At this, Briony snarled.)

“We must find her! Bring her back!” declared Fooh, and there was a chorus of assent.

Not to be outdone, his brother Beehn added, “We must make her see reason!” The gathered Beasts then hushed as they contemplated the daunting prospect of _making_ Cook do anything.

Briony's lip curled. No one would take any action today. Typical. She rose and stalked out even as Sallowpad opened his beak. She could no longer bear to be indoors. There was a small voice in the back of Briony's mind that urged her to stay, to speak, to listen and to lead. The voice sounded like Lucy. Briony changed her course. Instead of her den, she headed for the training yard – perhaps Eirene would be there. The thought made her tail lift slightly. A fierce sparring session was just what she needed to make her forget about the dithering, squabbling Beasts she left behind. (And though she tried to strangle the thought before it was fully formed, she could not help thinking that it may even quiet the voice-that-was-not-Lucy's.)


	3. Bargaining

_"Love is good, too, love being difficult."_

_\- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (Letter 7)_

 

Harah the Crow spent the 412th day single-mindedly looking for Aslan. The great Lion could be difficult to find even when He wanted to be found, something which Harah never understood. If one could feel his breath on the wind, see his velvet pads in the dewy grass, comb through his mane in the feathers of a nestmate, why was the Lion himself absent when Harah sought Him so desperately?

"I am here," rumbled a Voice.

Harah alit on the nearest branch, almost too tired to be grateful. "Aslan," she croaked. "I have been searching for you."

"And here I am," stated the Lion. "You have a question for me, daughter."

She did, but Harah had difficulty phrasing it. And why should she have to, if He already knew? "Ask," said Aslan.

Patient, prodding. This dance was pointless, Harah decided. If He wanted her to ask, even knowing the question already, then He must have a reason. Just because Harah could not deduce it did not mean that it was not a _good_ reason.

"What would it take to convince you to bring them back?" she asked.

The Lion's tail stilled. Harah persisted. "All Four of them, preferably. King Edmund, specifically." Always be specific – it was an unwritten rule of the Murder, and of Banker Morgan's, and of the Just King himself.

Apparently it was not one of Aslan's. "Their story is theirs alone, my daughter."

Harah snapped her beak. "No, it's not." _Specifics_ , she thought. "King Edmund's story is not his alone. It is also Banker Morgan's story. And Jalur's. And Sallowpad's and mine, the story of the Murder and all of Narnia. We all look to the Just King. All of Narnia loves the Four. How can you say their stories – our stories – are separate? Each twig is part of the nest. Pull one thread, and the cloth unravels." Harah had witnessed this for herself, when other Crows tugged shiny threads out of Morgan's dresses.

The Lion was silent. With anyone else, Harah would have waited for them to fill the silence first, as she had been taught. But Aslan would speak when He would speak. Until that time, Harah may as well continue voicing all the desperate questions He surely already knew, but which Harah had never let herself utter.

"Is it like death – once they are gone, they cannot come back again? But when Merle was gone, his scent lingered in the King's chambers and in his memory, and so _their_ story continued. And what about the Cub? Does it not follow that King Edmund forms part of his own son's story? Are they so far beyond your power, your very sight? Surely that cannot be so!"

Still the Lion remained silent. Harah's voice became a rasp. "I would give you every Shiny I possess and will ever earn. I would serve you unto my final breath. I would bear eggs and hatch chicks into your service–"

Aslan growled softly. "Do I not already have your service, daughter?"

Harah bowed her head. "Yes, Aslan," she croaked.

"And would you not teach your chicks about me? Would you not announce them as my own and appoint them into the service of Narnia, and so of mine?"

The feathers on Harah's head and back lay flat. "Of course I would, Aslan. If I had eggs, and if the chicks lived, they would grow to serve your will." She felt dull, heavy. Like some poor, flightless thing.

"Be at peace, Daughter of winds." Aslan moved closer to her perch; His eyes drew level with hers. "You have done good service to your Kings and Queens, to your brethren and to Narnia, and so to me. I will tell you this: King Edmund's story continues, both here through his son and in Another Place."

Harah dared to look into those golden eyes. "But–"

"Are the Dolphins of the sea any less my children than the Crow, Swan or Eagle? For all they are far beyond your world and ken, I love and govern them the same. You know this." Haran bobbed her head. "This Other Place has need of the Just King, and it is an even deeper need than Narnia's. For you have the living legacy of King Edmund, embodied in the love and loyalty of Regent Morgan and in their son. I tell you that Prince Edmund will grow to be a wise and just ruler, and that Narnia will flourish. I tell you also that this Other Place is in desperate need of counsel, guidance, gentleness and courage. Would you deny them that grace?"

Harah filed the information to reflect upon later. "I know it is selfishness, Aslan," she said, but the Lion interrupted her. She loved Him all the more for it, because it was very like a Crow.

"It is not selfishness. You ask out of love, and it is out of love that I tell you these things."

Harah ruffled her wings and eyed the Lion reprovingly. "Love is difficult."

Aslan chuckled. "All the more reason to hold fast to it. Be at peace, daughter of winds." Then the Lion breathed on her. And even against her will, she felt her spirits lifting.


	4. Depression

_For one human being to love another, that is the most difficult of all our tasks…"_

_\- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (Letter 7)_

 

Lambert lay by the stream where he first swore fealty to his Queen, along with an undying oath that would outlast Narnia itself. He had lost count of the days. He knew what she would say, if she could see his matted fur, hear his voice rough from disuse, see the skin hanging from his bones. She would pull the thorn from his paw and then lambast him thoroughly for indulging in this foolishness. She would force him to the hunt and draw her knife and run swiftly to the prey he dragged down. She would not meet his eyes. She would place her hand gently atop his skull and let it rest without stroking his fur. She would be at ease with him like with none other, and he would be able to breathe again.

But how could anyone keep breathing in a world where she no longer lived?

Someday, Lambert knew, she would greet him again in Aslan's own country. She would not fly to him, and he would not run to her, but she would kneel by him as they had once met by a stream. This once, perhaps he would raise his eyes to meet hers as they welcomed each other home.

But that was such a long time from now.

Lambert did not long for death. He would not, could not, until he knew she would be there too. And he did not wish to leave his mate. Distantly, Lambert knew Briony's pain must be just as great as his, but he also had faith in her strength. His own had deserted him. The bond that nothing could break had been severed, and it was so hard to move with only half a heart pumping blood through his veins.

Sometimes, there was a Voice.

When Lambert closed his eyes and rested by the stream, he could almost hear it. Like wolfsong, it rose and fell in rough, wild notes that carried inchoate visions, impressions of Another Place. Sometimes it was gray, sometimes green, but always filled with a sense of purpose. Sometimes Lambert's nose twitched, tickled by a spicy scent. Once, he smelled blood. It was not hers. Sometimes he almost felt a gentle weight between his ears. Sometimes it was almost enough.

And then: "Enough," said the Voice. "Rise."

Lambert opened his eyes, saw nothing but a haze of gold. He lurched to his feet. _I'm as unsteady as a pup_ , he thought, dismayed. "Aslan." He did not recognize his own voice.

"It is time to put grief aside. There is much work to be done."

Lambert tried to put words to the colors and scents he half-remembered from his waking dream. "Is Queen Susan doing your work… there?"

"She is."

"May I go to her?"

"When work is done, you shall meet again. But not before."

Lambert nodded. Somehow, the bald truth was a comfort, like leaning against a rock warmed by the sun. Hard, but steady. He took a few halting steps. "I do not know whether I am ready, Aslan, but say the word and I shall follow you."

"Yes, you shall. But first, let me tell you a story, my son," said the Lion. Gently.

Then Aslan began to sing.

Lambert saw the indistinct shapes of his dreams coalesce in the swirls and eddies of the stream. She wore a different face – at first too young, then drawn in grief, and later still lined with age and laughter – but Lambert would have known her even bereft of all his senses. Every glint of sunlight on the water traced her story. The Lion's song rose and fell and for a moment the Other Place hung in the air around them, suspended in droplets of water and a hazy golden light. _I am here, my Queen_ , he longed to call, yet knowing he could never be heard over the force of that song. Then the water stilled. Lambert looked down at his reflection, and she was there. She smiled at him and placed her hand on his head. One last note hung in the air and faded; the current dissipated like clouds after a storm.

In its wake, the silence was filled with all the sounds of life that Lambert had been deaf to for so long. He peered into the stream. There was no human hand resting atop his head, though the warm weight remained. Below him the water rushed, clear and bright and laughing, over stones the color of her eyes.

For the first time in 420 days, Lambert felt his heart begin to beat.


	5. Acceptance

_… the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation."_

_\- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (Letter 7)_

 

It had been 423 days since the Departure. That much Tumnus had recorded in the official Chronicle. But Morgan also knew that 97 of those days had been besieged by pollen, that the Murder had abstained from beetle racing for the first 111, and that her son the Cub had been happily flinging mushed peas about her chamber for precisely forty-three minutes. Morgan had a memory as long as any Beast's.

A gray Squirrel flounced up onto the windowsill. "Pardon, pardon, a hundred pardons My Lady Baker, but have you seen a nut?" A memory as long as any Beast's, and longer than some, reflected Morgan wryly. The Squirrel nosed about, then held up her paws. "About so big, Lady, brown and round and it tastes rather nutty, with a hint of oak –"

"Try the hollow log by the Romp," advised Morgan.

"Oh!" The Squirrel's long duster of a tail flicked about. "Now that you say it – yes, I seem to recall – Romp! Log! Nuts! Yes. Many thanks, thanks indeed!" She sped off and flung herself into the waiting arms of a nearby Birch.

Rafiqa cocked her head. "If I may ask," the Hound began.

Morgan's eyes jumped from the Received Goods column of the harbormaster's log to the castle inventory and back again. "The Oaks and Walnuts held some back. I put them in that log last autumn. Squirrels can't remember anything."

Rafiqa nodded slowly. "That's very kind of you." Her tail beat a steady rhythm against the floor.

"Lucy used to do it." Morgan had even helped her. 431 days ago.

The Hound rested her head briefly on Morgan's thigh. "Have you any ideas about the Kitchens?"

Morgan sighed. "Aside from eating nuts? No, I do not."

* * *

 

The Squirrel was back again the next day, looking decidedly chubbier. She interrupted a Council meeting, but Morgan waved her in. "What is your name?" asked Morgan. Rafiqa made a low noise in the back of her throat. "Friend," added Morgan.

"Thistledown!" chirped the Squirrel. "Thanks for the nuts! Ever so many."

"Many thanks or many nuts?" muttered Teddy. Crows chuckled in the rafters, and Rafiqa sighed.

"You're welcome," said Morgan. "Tell me, Thistledown, what would you do if your nuts went missing?"

The Squirrel's tail thrashed about. "Oh but they did, they did! I would come to you, because I came to you, and you found them!"

More laughter and feathers drifted down from above. Morgan held back a sigh of her own. "What if I weren't here?"

A tiny paw flew up to a tiny open mouth. "Oh! Are you going somewhere? Like a bird, south for winter? Are you going to find seeds? May I come?"

"Er, no. Just imagine, though, what would you do if I did go… elsewhere? And you remained here?"

All around the conference chamber, Beasts and Beings cocked their heads and fell silent, undoubtedly wondering why Morgan bothered to interrogate a Squirrel. Everybody knew the bushy-tailed rodents were spectacularly unskilled at What If.

"I'd… find new nuts?" Thistledown scratched one fluffy ear uncertainly.

Morgan almost smiled. "Exactly. And we must find a new cook." The lowercase letter plunked into a sudden silence. Then hackles raised and disbelieving squawks echoed around the room.

"But, Your Highness," a Faun began to protest.

"I am not your Highness," Morgan said in a flat voice. "I am your Regent. Harah!" she called.

The Crow cawed back from her perch in the obliging Oak just outside. Morgan always left the windows open. "A wager?" Harah asked, shifting her feet.

"No," replied Morgan. "An opening. Spread the word. Cair Paravel needs a new cook."

* * *

It was not that easy, of course. Though it seemed to many as if Morgan had always been in Narnia, she had not in fact been present for the Choosing of the Guard. Thus it came as a considerable surprise to her when representatives of every clan, pack, herd, flock, rookery, set, colony, brace and band turned up for their turn in the kitchens. It seemed that every Beast or Being who ate food had opinions on how it should be prepared.

After the fourth day of seedcakes, raw spinefish and liver-beans-and-jelly biscuits, Morgan wished she could delegate the whole business to the Mischief and be done with it. They had excellent memories – they would know how each castle resident and visitor liked each dish ("Cooked but not charred," she told the eighteenth applicant firmly; by the thirtieth, this instruction had morphed to "Over the flames, not in them"). But unfortunately, the Rats and Mice could not be spared from their other duties. Though when he could, Teddy was kind enough to prepare a simple salad, with no sweetfern but plenty of tomatoes and bitters, just the way she liked it.

Aidan, her counterpart and mainstay during the past 432 days, had missed most of the interviews. He and Frieda had been traveling the Realm, reassuring distant subjects that the Monarchy would continue, that the Kingdom of Narnia and its governance were secure. This division of labors suited Morgan quite well. Upon their return, Aidan tried to make himself helpful with the hiring process, but it turned out that he was not possessed of a particularly discriminating palate. As a soldier, his culinary vocabulary was comprised of words like _scorched_ and _spicy_ – which, while accurate, were not quite adequate for the task at hand. And while Frieda made a wonderful assistant, she was still too polite to comment when the bread had whole pebbles in it, or the chicken was served complete with its feathers.

After the Hedgehog incident, Morgan had to put her foot down.

"The quills did make splendid toothpicks," commented Aidan. Frieda giggled.

They were both so much like Lucy, always looking on the bright side. Morgan felt the old insecurity flare, and she touched her brooch absently. It reminded her of Edmund, and that gave her strength. "I will finish the interviews. I need you to arrange the schooling."

A hush fell over the room. Mr. Hoberry, without whom Morgan would likely have torn her hair out days ago, cleared his throat. "School is a delicate subject in Narnia," he began.

But Aidan – bless him – saw through her words to the heart of the matter. "You mean for the children – my children, and Liv."

"And me, too," Frieda added.

Aidan and his relations had come from Archenland's peasant soldiery. Though long on goodness and good sense, they were short on formal learning. That was something Morgan had long meant to rectify.

"Yes," said Morgan with relief. "Harold – King Edmund – he told me about the early days. A bit. There was much he and his brother and sisters should have known, but didn't." Even after all this time, a few hackles raised at the implied criticism of the Four. But Morgan forged ahead. She knew how important this was for Narnia, even if the Narnians didn't. "Human children must have an education so they can acquit themselves well abroad, can represent Narnia to our allies and enemies as a wise, intelligent nation to be respected. We'll need Centaurs, of course, and Dwarves and Fauns and Bankers and any number of Beasts, and –"

Mr. Hoberry's eyes shone. "You can count on us, Regent Morgan."

"We will see it done," promised Aidan. "If there is anything we can do to help with the kitchens…"

"Absolutely not," said Morgan. Rafiqa nudged her leg. "But thank you."

* * *

Morgan greeted Application #47 (Raccoon, female; strengths: good memory, nimble fingers; weakness: familial over-reliance upon snails) as she had all the others – courteously, but with dwindling hopes of finding anyone as suitable as Cook. How had Harold and his siblings managed such a feat when they were little more than children? Certainly, Peter inspired confidence and Susan attracted competence, but where had they learned such insight as to choose a Minotaur but several months after Beruna? Morgan could not read people as they had; Beasts, however, she could understand.

"What is your name, Friend?"

The Raccoon curtsied, her tail curling around her feet like a furred skirt. "Peekarrumilabirrik," she trilled. At Morgan's side, Frieda and her sure, steady hand faltered. Ink dripped from her quill, but it was Harold's formula so at least it would not stain. "You can call me Peeka," the Raccoon offered. Frieda breathed a nearly silent sigh of relief.

Morgan had no need to consult her list of questions, but reminded herself to pause after each one. "Have you experience cooking for Humans?"

"Oh yes! In the campaigns, I cooked for the Army. And I stayed in Archenland after the siege in order to learn their seasonings. I thought it might be of comfort to the young ones." Her ears perked hopefully.

Out of the corner of her eye, Morgan saw Frieda straighten in her seat. Morgan nodded to her, and the girl jumped in with her own eager questions. "Do you know sweetbreads, then? And shepherd's soup? Almond cake?"

Bright eyes shone in the Raccoon's dark mask. "Yes, all those, and egg-bake with anise seeds, too!"

At Frieda's painfully wide smile, Morgan put an X in the column labeled Humans, and another under Variety of Repertoire. To bring Archenlander cooking to the children… Other than Aidan's soldier's fare, even the simplest dishes at Cair Paravel had been strange to them. They would grow accustomed to it soon enough – Morgan had – but a taste of home would do them good. Not to mention, it could provide a more familiar standby for visiting dignitaries … something other than potatoes, boiled, mashed and stewed. Morgan added a second X for good measure.

"How familiar are you with other Beasts' dietary restrictions?"

Peeka nodded her dark head in approval of the question. "In the Army, I cooked for Centaurs, Dwarves, Fauns, Satyrs and all manner of Beasts. I even cured meat for the Gryphon Wings."

Another X. "Who taught you?" Morgan asked curiously.

"Why, Cook did. She was very nice."

Morgan's quill dropped from her fingers. Next to her, Frieda gave a little squeak. "Nice," repeated Morgan.

"Very!" chirped the Raccoon.

After a long pause, Morgan found her place again. "Why do you want to work here?"

Peeka's clever paws twisted around each other. "Well, when Cook asked me, I could hardly say no."

"What do you mean, she asked you?" blurted Morgan.

"She sent a Bird. Well, Birds. The message came by Woodpecker relay all the way from the Eastern seashore. It was short, of course. Hammer-drums can only say so much. But she said she would be away longer than planned, and so she sent for me." Peeka's tail fluffed with pride.

Morgan exchanged an incredulous look with Frieda. All this time, they'd had no inkling of Cook's whereabouts or intentions, and yet the Minotaur had sent her own replacement. Temporary replacement? "Does she intend to return?"

"What nonsense!" Peeka chittered. "Of course she does. You do not think she would simply leave the Palace in the paws of an apprentice forever!" The Raccoon directed a reproachful frown at the humans.

Still, Morgan persisted. "But where _is_ she?"

"I told you. At the Eastern–"

"But _why_?" pressed Morgan. "Why did she leave, and when is she coming back?"

"She left no word for us, you see," interjected Frieda.

Peeka, whose fur had increasingly bristled under the onslaught of questions, straightened. "She went to the Birthing Grounds, of course. All Minotaurs go to the sea for birthing. It calms them, you see."

"Birth?" echoed Morgan weakly. "Cook is having a…" What did one call a baby Minotaur – child, calf?

"Goodness no!" Peeka tittered. "She is past calving age. It happened to so many during the Long Winter, you know. No, this is a Clan gathering. Many new mothers all in one place, many mouths to feed. Someone has to teach them when to introduce raw meat, how to stew the liver for the young ones, which grasses are too rough… Much knowledge was lost during the Winter."

"And Cook has been recompiling it?" Morgan tapped her quill on her chin, leaving little blue freckles of ink. "That does not explain why she did not leave word," she said severely.

Peeka shrugged. "You would know why better than I," she pointed out. Morgan thought of the tripe and winced. The Raccoon coughed. "May I go start the soup? Else the flavors will not have time to blend."

"Um. Yes. Of course," stammered Morgan. "But… Cook _is_ coming back?"

The Raccoon drew herself up to her full height. "Not before supper," she declared. Peeka produced an apron from somewhere and tucked it around her waist. "So I had best get started."

After Peeka had scampered off to the kitchens, Frieda leaned over and whispered to Morgan. "She does remind me a little of Cook."

Morgan nodded absently, already planning the notifications that would have to be sent out – polite rejections to those who had interviewed, cancelations of any appointments with new applicants… "It's the teeth," she answered belatedly. "Oh, you may as well tell the Crows the betting is off. We've already hired a new cook. Temporarily."

"Yes, Morgan." Frieda rose obediently. "Do you have any debts to collect?"

"No, but I'll be placing one on Cook's return. Don't tell anyone yet – I want to talk with the Physician first."

Frieda grinned. "He keeps _Morphology of Minotaurs_ on the third shelf, behind the bust of Thyssop, who discovered the seven herbal treatments for thrombophilia."

Morgan blinked. "Why Thyssop?"

"Something about blood sausage," Frieda answered, and she left with a skip in her step.


	6. Epilogue

_"And one more thing: Don't think that the great love which was once granted to you […] has been lost; how can you know whether vast and generous wishes didn't ripen in you at that time, and purposes by which you are still living today? I believe that that love remains so strong and intense in your memory because it was your first deep aloneness and the first inner work that you did on your life."_

_\- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet_

 

At first, Fooh had resented his brother. Beehn slept all the time, with no need to keep himself busy. When Lambert suggested (Fooh refused to admit he had been effectively herded) that he help with the fledgling school for the Archenlander children, Fooh only went along because he had nothing else to do. A week in, he began to wonder if he had turned into his brother – rushing headlong into a mad enterprise without pausing to think it through.

Surreptitiously, he checked his foot. No, there was the spot that King Peter had always said was shaped like a rosebud. (Beehn had always said it was shaped like a camel's rump, and no matter how hard he tried to see the rose, all Fooh could ever see was the rump.) He was still himself – whatever that meant now that Fooh was no longer a Guard.

But as the days lengthened, Fooh envied his brother less. He began spending more time at the school and would even sit with the children at night, teaching their eyes to see Narnian shapes in the stars. They studied maps that Fooh scratched in the sand, and the Cheetah told them stories of swords and roads and all the things he had learned from his mother and from his King.

And so, before he knew it, Fooh had become one of the Palace Teachers. Which, in practice, meant a combination of professor, parent and sheepdog. And, occasionally, plaything.

"Gee-up!" commanded small Berend from his perch on Fooh's shoulders. "Yah, horsey, gee-up!"

Fooh's ears twitched. "I am not a horsey, or even a Horse. I am a Cheetah."

Berend considered this for a long moment. "Gee-up, Chee-ah!" Fooh sighed.

Behind them, Lambert coughed. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Fooh turned carefully so as not to unseat his charge. Lambert raised an eyebrow, and Fooh willed himself not to betray a single ungracious thought.

"You may wish to reconsider," the Wolf advised. "Cheetahs are very fast. If Fooh… _gees up_ … you may fall off."

Berend shifted his weight uncertainly, and Fooh did an ungainly dance to keep the child from slipping. Then Berend tugged at his ruff, and it _hurt_. How could such small fingers be so strong? "Woah, horsey," declared Berend. Fooh halted, his ears pinned back miserably.

Lambert's own ears gave a miniscule twitch. "A wise decision," he said gravely.

_So help me, if you say "good horsey…"_ Fooh forced himself to relax his suddenly taut muscles. Lambert abruptly turned to attend Frieda, who seemed in no need of assistance whatsoever.

Small hands patted the dome of his head. "Good horsey," the little boy whispered, and promptly fell asleep.

Fooh lowered himself gently to the ground. For a moment, he allowed himself to remember cool nights sprawled under the vast desert sky, and even further back – chewed sleeves, a tattered blanket and warm, strong hands. Then the Cheetah draped his tail over the child and began planning his next lesson, which he would tell as a story, which was really only the first chapter.

But it was a good place to begin.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Of Outtakes and Omelets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4205265) by [Syrena_of_the_lake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake)




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